Gun Country

by Ralph Cotton

  “I didn’t see them myself, sir, until it was too late,” the sergeant said in his own defense. “What the hell is a colonel doing out this far?”

  “I’ll be sure and ask him for you, Sergeant,” the young captain said sarcastically over his shoulder as the sergeant guided the sleeves of his tunic onto his arms from behind and hiked it onto his shoulders. “Now hand me my sword, Sergeant,” the captain barked, frantically buttoning the tunic up the front. “Jesus, there’s enough brass out there to start a band!”

  “Let’s not worry, sir,” said the sergeant. “I recognize neither of these men. If they were higher-echelon officers on any renown, I would know them both by name.”

  “That offers me small comfort, Sergeant,” said the captain. “I make it a point that no rank higher than my own should ever see me uncovered, with my guard down.” He jerked his battered hat from the hands of a private who held it out to him as the train lurched to a final halt.

  “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Webster.

  “Let us go see what this is all about, shall we, Sergeant?” said Ploster, regaining his military bearing.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant repeated, gesturing for two privates to follow him. The privates snatched their rifles from against the wall and held them at port arms.

  Pulling the hat down levelly onto his forehead, Captain Ploster walked briskly toward the car door, the sergeant right behind him, the two privates following the sergeant in perfect step.

  Corio stood with his chest out, his hands behind his back, as the captain stopped four feet from him and snapped his hand to his forehead in a salute. “Sir, Captain William Ploster, Fifth Calvary, Frontier Service Detail, at your service, sir.”

  But the make-believe colonel’s return salute was not immediately forthcoming. Instead he kept his hands behind his back, leaving the captain with his hand raised while he looked the young officer up and down slowly. “Let me ask you something, Captain. Do you know where you are?”

  “Where I am, sir?” Ploster asked.

  The colonel stared fiercely at him.

  “We are in Badlands Territory, sir,” Ploster said quickly. “Our exact coordinates might be best described as two miles below the rail trestle at Hueco Pass, headed in a northeasterly—”

  “Yes, Badlands Territory,” said Corio, cutting the captain off midsentence. Now he brought his hands from behind his back, raised his right hand as if grudgingly and returned the attentive captain’s salute. “No one should have to tell you how dangerous this place is. Shouldn’t the fact that we have posted guards aboard each flatcar be enough to inform you?”

  “Yes, sir. It is, sir,” said Ploster, not knowing what else to say.

  “This is no place to be either undressed or playing poker, Captain,” said Corio with disgust. “What if you had suddenly found border trash, American land pirates or Mexican banditos awaiting you here instead of the United States Army?”

  Captain Ploster searched his brain rapidly for an answer, yet found himself only able to offer, “It was checkers, sir.”

  “It was what, Major Clinton?” Corio asked, turning to Jordan as if for a translation.

  “Checkers, Colonel Winthorpe,” Jordan replied with a harsh stare centered on Captain Ploster. “The captain was out of uniform, playing checkers with his men, sir.”

  “Checkers, indeed,” said the fake colonel. To Ploster he said, “Captain, have your sergeant relieve all your guards. We have brought a detachment of special sharpshooters who will accompany the cargo on to Arizona Territory.”

  Relieve the guards . . . ? Sharpshooters . . . ? Captain Ploster had chosen these guards himself; each of them was a crack shot. Moving only his eyes, he looked the colonel up and down, taking note of the gold colonel insignia on each of his broad shoulders. “Sir, begging the colonel’s pardon. But if I might ask—”

  “You might not ask, soldier,” Corios growled in a scorching tone, appearing to advance on the young captain like an angry dog. “I did not ride eighty miles across the barren wasteland to answer the questions of some subordinate checker player. I too follow orders. My orders come from General Tolliver himself. Perhaps you might care to ask him why we’re doing this, then be so kind as to enlighten me when you find out! Meanwhile, have your guards stand down!”

  “Sergeant Webster,” Ploster said quickly.

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, not having to have the order repeated to him. Turning on his heel, he and the two privates moved away toward the flatcars at a trot.

  Behind the platform, as if on cue, Hooks, Irish Tommie and the rest of the make-believe soldiers stepped down from their saddles and stood at parade rest, awaiting their next move. Staring toward the engine, Corio folded his hands behind his back once again and said to Jordan in a more pleasant tone, “Major Clinton, believe it or not, I have never ridden in one of these iron horses. This trip I believe I shall.”

  “Yes, Colonel,” said the phony major. “Shall the captain and I accompany you, then?”

  Corio turned and looked Captain Ploster up and down again as if gauging his worth. Then he looked to Jordan and said, “You join me, Major, but only for a time. I want Captain Checkers here with his men, awake and in uniform, without his checkerboard. I feel it must take your presence to assure me of that.” With no more on the matter, he turned with his hands still behind his back and walked away toward the engine.

  As soon as the phony colonel was out of hearing range, Jordan stuck his hand out to Captain Ploster and introduced himself with a more agreeable smile. “Major Markus Clinton, Captain. I hope you’ll overlook the colonel’s abrasiveness. This unusual task was thrown upon him by the general quite punitively, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?” said the captain, shaking hands. He actually felt a bit relieved hearing that the colonel would not be riding in the troop car with him. Even more relieved that he now saw a much friendlier side to the major.

  “Yes,” the phony major went on, “apparently Colonel Winthorpe questioned the readiness of the troops guarding the shipments of armaments along the badland rails, not realizing that the general himself had a personal hand in things, along with the rail owners.”

  “Ouch,” said Captain Ploster, letting himself breathe a little easier.

  “ ‘Ouch,’ indeed,” the fake major said with a slight chuckle. “So the general sent him out here to see for himself. It’s just the sort of innocent blunder that can freeze even a colonel in today’s army, I’m afraid.” He raised a cautioning finger and advised, “So take heed, Captain. We are under watchful eyes.”

  “Yes, sir, Major Clinton,” said Ploster. “I’m grateful you’re telling me. I intend to avoid any such innocent blunder myself.” Gesturing a hand sidelong toward the troop cars, the young captain escorted the phony major toward the idling train.

  From inside one of the open windows, a young trooper watched Hooks, Lemate and the rest of the phony soldiers step down from their saddles as one and unsnap their Winchester repeater rifles from their saddle hooks in the same manner. To his comrade beside him the young man said quietly, “These must be some of them special troops I’ve heard about. Now, there’s some fellows who know how to soldier.”

  Any suspicions Captain Ploster might have had would have gone away as he and the major walked aboard the train and looked out the window to see the phony soldiers lower the loading ramp on the stock car. As Ploster and the major took a seat, the captain watched the soldiers lead their horses inside the stock car and close the doors. Sergeant Webster and the two privates stood in the aisle waiting to be dismissed.

  Sitting down beside Captain Ploster, the fake major took two cigars from inside his tunic, handed him one and sat expectantly until Sergeant Webster produced a long sulfur match and lit each man’s cigar in turn, Major Clinton’s first.

  “There’s no reason why we can’t get civilly acquainted before I go join the colonel, is there, Captain?” he asked with a smile, letting go of a long stream of smoke.

  “
None at all, Major,” said Ploster, feeling better now that the colonel was up front in the engine, and his reason for being here was better understood.

  “So, Captain?” the fake major asked with the same friendly smile. “West Point, I presume . . . ?”

  “On the contrary, Major Clinton,” said Ploster, “I’m strictly field command—Comanche wars.”

  “Comanche wars,” said the phony major with an impressed look. “I commend you, sir.”

  Ploster gave a humble nod. “And yourself, West Point?” He also let go of a long stream of smoke, and relieved the sergeant and the two privates with the toss of a hand. They stepped away and took seats across the aisle from the two officers.

  “Ah yes, West Point. I graduated in the same class as Philpot, Custer and Dowd . . . ,” the major said a bit wistfully. It was the only true thing he had said so far, he reminded himself, recalling the years before he’d ridden off to fight for Lee’s Southern forces.

  In the engine, Corio stood back with a hand raised and wrapped around an iron bar for support, steadying himself as the train began its slow departure. Leaning and looking out the door back along the train, Corio saw Hooks reach out and wave his hat up and down slowly, signaling that everything had gone well in relieving the guards, who were now resting in the troop cars farther behind him.

  Corio watched as Jordan stepped down from the troop car, trotted forward past the flatcars and hopped up onto the iron ladder at the engine’s door. Taking Corio’s hand for support, Jordan hopped aboard and said with a smile clamped around half a cigar, “That certainly went well, Colonel Winthorpe.”

  “Just as I anticipated it would, Major,” said Corio, still going along with their ruse. “I hope you and the captain had a nice chat over your cigars?”

  “De-lightful,” said Jordan with exaggeration. “It was like taking a short trip home.”

  “And how did you leave the captain?” Corio asked.

  “Resting as comfortably as a child,” said Jordan, his voice below the roar, pulse and pound of the big steam engine.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, the engineer, an older man named Foster Brady, looked the two up and down, and said, “Begging both your pardons, but I never had a high-brass colonel and a major in this sweatbox before.”

  “It’s unlikely you ever will again,” said Jordan.

  “That’s right,” said Corio, unbuttoning the collar of his tunic as he spoke. “We’re not what you’d call your typical high brass.” He took off the cavalry hat and hung it on an iron peg.

  “Oh . . . ? You two are just some good ole down-to-earth boys at heart, eh?” the old engineer asked with a crooked grin.

  “That’s us to a fault,” said Jordan, slipping his Army Colt up from beneath its holster flap and holding it down at his side, his thumb over the hammer. “My colonel here has a keen interest in trains.”

  “Does he sure enough?” the old engineer asked, glancing back at Corio.

  “I fear he’ll be bending your ear on the matter most any time now,” said Jordan.

  “Well, bend away,” said the engineer. “I know more about trains than I’ll ever know about women.” He cackled at his own little joke.

  “To begin with . . . ,” said Corio, looking around and judging the speed of the train. “How far back would you have to begin braking in order to stop this train at, say, halfway across the trestle at Hueco Pass?” he asked.

  As he asked, Corio also slipped his Colt from beneath the holster flap and held it down at his side, ready to bring into play when needed.

  “At the speed we’ll be going when we get near there, I’d have to start braking down ten or twelve minutes before we go out onto the trestle.”

  “Which is it, ten or twelve?” Corios asked in more a demanding tone than a simple question.

  Without looking around, the engineer recalculated his speed and judged his answer closer. “All right, ten minutes, then, if you want to get to the fine line.” He shook his head slightly, then said, “But that’s not something anybody would ever want to do, stop out there on the middle of a trestle that way.”

  “Why’s that?” Corio asked.

  “Well, there’s no reason too. It’s high up, and dangerous. There’s barely room for a man to walk. If you was walking, a hard wind would blow you away.” After a silent pause he asked, “Why’d you ask such a thing as that anyway, Colonel?”

  “Because that’s where you’re going to make this train stop,” said Corio. He smiled and raised the Colt and cocked it. “The back half of it anyway.”

  The engineer looked around and saw two cocked Colts pointed at him. “Ah, hell, I’m robbed, ain’t I?”

  “That’s the story,” said Corio, a pocket watch in his left hand. “If you don’t do what I tell you, you’re not only robbed, you’re dead.”

  “I don’t want to die, but I can’t promise to stop this thing exactly where you want it,” said the engineer.

  “Then you better start calculating,” said Corio. “I want you to tell me where we have to pull the pin, to cut the troop cars off and leave them out on the trestle.”

  “Damn,” said the old man, hesitating, “I can’t be a party to something like that.”

  “Then we shoot you and do it ourselves.” Corio shrugged. “I’ve got a man waiting for my signal. If we do it, there’s no telling how it turns out. You do it, you can leave them boys with no more than a high walk back to the other side. What’s it going to be?”

  “Hell, I don’t want to see nobody hurt,” said the engineer. “I’ll tell you when to cut them loose.”

  Chapter 16

  An hour had passed since the train had taken on its water and gotten back under way. Captain Ploster had leaned back in his seat and allowed himself to doze, leaving the sergeant to warn him should the major or the colonel walk back to the troop car, which was something he doubted now that the train was rolling along at a good fast click.

  He couldn’t picture either of the higher-ranking officers wanting to walk along the open edge of the flatcars in order to reach one of the two troop cars, especially now that they would be heading over the long trestle at Hueco Pass. Hallelujah for that. . . .

  Yet, no sooner had he fallen into a light but fitful sleep than he heard the lowered voice of Sergeant Webster say close to his ear, “Captain Ploster, wake up, sir. The train is slowing down over the pass. There’s something wrong up there.”

  As the captain awakened and stood up, a young soldier called out from an open window where he had leaned far out and looked ahead at the flatcars of arms and munitions pulling away from them across the deep gaping chasm below them. “Sergeant Webster, we’ve been cut loose from the train!” he shouted, drawing others to the open windows to see for themselves.

  “Oh no,” said Ploster, already getting the picture before even looking out the window.

  “Out of my way, lads, step lively!” shouted the sergeant, shoving and elbowing his way through the excited soldiers until he could lean out the window and look ahead across Hueco Pass. Gripping the open window frame with rage, Webster said, “The lousy sonsabitches are waving at me!”

  On the last of the flatcars, Irish Tommie stood dancing a lively jig. He and the others waved their cavalry hats at the slowing troop cars left drawing to a slow halt almost halfway across Hueco Pass. Almost as one the men sailed their cavalry hats out across the canyon.

  The soldiers could only stare, watching the hats circle and careen downward out of sight.

  In the engine, the engineer heard the revelry of the outlaws on the flatcars. “Not a danged shot fired!” he exclaimed. He breathed a sigh of relief, then grinned and added, “That was as slick as socks on a rooster, if I do say so myself.”

  Corio and Jordan lowered their Colts and let the hammers down, but kept the guns in hand. From atop the train a fireman named Lowell Kirby had walked down across the carload of firewood into the engine when he noted the cars behind them beginning to lose speed and separate from the trai
n. Now he stood with his hands chest high and a worried look on his face. “Can I put my hands down now?” he asked. “I’ll need to stoke us up here in a few minutes.” He nodded toward the iron door on the boiler.

  “Yeah, drop them,” said Corio. “Do what you need to do to speed us up and keep us moving, and we’ll let you out of this alive.”

  “Thanks, Mister,” said the fireman, lowering his arms and taking a deep breath. “Just tell me where we’re headed, so I’ll know how far to stretch my wood supply.”

  “Yellow Moon Canyon,” said Corio. “Get us there before midnight.”

  “That’ll be the new rail spur headed toward the border, you’re wanting?” the fireman asked.

  “That’s the place,” Corio said with a faint smile of satisfaction. “Now take us to it.”

  The fireman shook his head in consternation. “That’s a dangerous place out there around Yellow Moon,” he said in a fearful voice. “There’s outlaws from both sides of the border, would cut a man’s throat for his—” He stopped short, considering his present company.

  “You’re not going to be a talker, are you?” Jordan asked in a harsh tone, his lowered Colt easing back up to level. “Because we both hate talkers.”

  The fireman cleared his throat and ventured, “All’s I meant was—”

  “Shut up, Lowell,” the engineer said over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the rails ahead. “Can’t you hear him? They hate talkers.”

  Back on the abandoned troop cars that had now come to a complete stop almost halfway across the deep canyon, the second fireman, a younger man named Huey Sadler, walked carefully along the narrow walkway beside the train. He stopped as the captain and the sergeant stepped out and looked down at the dizzying space stretching downward beneath them. “They’ve taken one stock car of horses with them. There’s not enough room to lower a ramp and get our horses off the other, Sergeant!” said Ploster, assessing the situation.

  “Right, sir, I’d say that’s the gist of it,” said Sergeant Webster. Looking at the second fireman, he asked, “Any notion what a man’s to do in this kind of situation?”